The Lemon Wallpaper
by JanineMNM
Summary: Injured and laid up in the old Compton house, Sookie finds strange things happening in the wallpaper. AH. Tragedy. Warnings: rape, violence, sex, medical trauma, mental illness. Not a lemon fest.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris.**  
**

***Heads up* **This story will include portrayals of rape, other violence and sexual content, medical trauma, and mental illness. Please note it's a tragedy.

It will span four chapters, posting weekly. A little more info on the story's basis is posted on my profile page.

Big thanks to Peppermintyrose ;) and to the person who poked at me to write this story. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 1  
**

**commencement: **1. the beginning of something 2. graduation ceremony

If I have to pick a beginning to tell my story—and I have, many times—here is where I begin: I'm standing in my kitchen, putting frozen pizza bagels in my toaster oven. I set the temperature on low—so they don't burn—turn the timer to ten minutes, as the package instructs, and head to the bathroom to get ready for work.

That's it. It's a humble beginning if there ever was one.

Of course, if you are a good friend, maybe I confide that I think a serving size of four mini bagels—not the full-size ones—is ridiculous, and that I added two additional plain cheese to fill me up, though I definitely would have preferred the sausage-pepperoni variety. And if you are a good friend, maybe I also tell you that I was very much enjoying my bath—shaving my legs, loofah-ing and lathering, scrubbing and buffing and whatnot—until the problems started, so to speak.

That memory was the last clear one I had for a while. The next week or so was a blur as I drifted from one end of consciousness to another, from sleep to periods of lackadaisical drowsiness to moments of being aware of nothing but hard bodily pain. Throughout it all, people appeared in my hospital room as though they'd simply poofed in place.

Jason was the first one who heard my story. "The toaster didn't shut off!" he exclaimed, standing by my bed.

"I'm pretty sure it did. At least I remember hearing the ding."

"Well, then, there must have been a wiring problem. You can't trust those cheap appliances, can you?"

I shrugged, a slight twitch of my shoulders. My inexpensive smoke detector had worked just fine, for all the good it had done me.

"That was the first indication, Miss Stackhouse, when you heard the smoke detector?" Dennis Pettibone, the fire inspector asked.

"Yes."

"At approximately what time did you hear the alarm?"

That was a tough one, to be sure, and required me to count backwards.

"Well," I fumbled through the fog, willing my brain to sharpen. "I was supposed to start work at five. I usually leave the house at 4:45. And I usually give myself about an hour to get ready, which means I put the bagels in at about 3:45. They were in for ten minutes before the timer went off…"

"And you definitely heard the timer?" he interrupted.

"Yes." Here's where I stalled. "Maybe the smoke detector went off about ten minutes later, at about 4:05." It was all a doubly hazy guess—the haze of then layered on top of the haze of now.

The fire inspector pursed his lips, as though I'd somehow given him the wrong answer.

"You are very lucky, Miss Stackhouse," he added, needling.

"I know," I replied. "Thank you." I do feel lucky—extremely fortunate to be alive—though if I had my strength, I'd tackle him and rake his eyes out with my fingernails.

"I don't know what it was that made me look, Sookie." Bill hovered next to me, his shoulder and arm pressed against the rails of my bed.

This conversation was the harder one to have, with one of the people who'd saved my life. Bill had happened to look out his window and notice smoke coming from the direction of my house, across the top of the trees. As far as he had known, I might have been simply burning a pile of trash. But something had told him different. Something had made him call 9-1-1 straight away.

"I tried hard to get myself out. I just couldn't." I cried nearly every time I said it. It's awful when you absolutely want your body to move in a way it absolutely can't, even to save its own life.

"You was flat out, Sookie. Face down on the floor. I didn't think about nothin' but grabbin' you and gettin' out of there."

Mr. Tooten stood awkwardly in the far corner, a teacup full of autumn flowers on the window ledge next to him. He'd dashed into my burning home to find me on my bathroom floor and carry me out through the smoke.

This was the part of my story that _he_ told to _me_, because I didn't remember any of it.

"Thank you." Though my words were too scarce, at the moment they were all I could say without sobbing, which would have hurt even worse. _I'm glad your plan worked,_ I thought to myself, hearing how inadequate I still sounded, humbled by the bald fact that I wouldn't ever be able to say or do anything to let him know exactly how thankful I was.

Charlsie, his wife, pushed closer and clasped my hand. Nearly everyone seemed to need to reach for my hand or stroke my arm, or brush a bit of hair away from my face, all of which jangled my hyper-sensitive nerves. I knew Charlsie not only from work, but also from the Methodist church, and maybe for this reason, she felt comfortable enough to say a prayer aloud. "Thank you, Lord, for sparing us two of your faithful children. We thank you for the courage you instilled in Ralph to save Sookie. We ask that you give Sookie the strength she needs to heal and to remain ever faithful in your service. In Jesus's name we pray."

From Charlsie's perspective, her husband had risked his life to give me a second chance. "Don't fuck it up," she was saying.

"Amen," I replied, figuring that since Charlsie had looked widowhood squarely in the eye, I could hardly begrudge her of the expectation that I would walk a repentant straight-and-narrow path from here to ever after. "He's a keeper, Charlsie," I added.

"God bless him, he is. You get well now, you hear?"

I smiled and nodded and closed my eyes, the signal I'd found that gave all of us the easy exit.

"You will heal," Eric said with way more confidence than I could muster. He sat next to me in a short chair, his long legs splayed and bent like grasshopper legs, folded and poised to spring. He held a lot of coiled energy—a lot of potential—but otherwise his actions were muted. He reached out to slowly smooth a bit of sheet on the edge of the bed. I liked the sound of it, rhythmic and whispery. Swish. Shush. Shhhh. His fingers said. Hypnotic.

"Hmm?" I said, feeling a new wave of drugs start to kick in.

"You will heal."

I wondered whether he'd heard something that I hadn't, because all that I'd gotten was a glossing over of details. My pelvis was fractured—that much I knew—a result of the slip-and-slide stunt I'd done leaping out of my tub when my smoke detector had started screaming. One minute I was standing, grabbing for my robe hanging from the back of the door, and the next thing I knew, I was face down on the floor, in pain so stunning I could barely breathe.

"Your pelvis is stabilized," Dr. Ludwig had said, "But you will require bed rest and physical therapy to heal." She'd delivered this news with such confidence that only after she left the room had I thought to ask, _How long? When? Where? What kind of physical therapy?_ and so on. But then the nurse who often tended to me during the day hedged uncomfortably when I'd tried to pin her down for more information. "You'll be in a bit of ongoing discomfort," she'd acknowledged. It was the way she'd averted her eyes that had bothered me most and made me stop my press for more information.

"It is what it is," I told myself, forcing myself to stay focused on the here-and-now.

* * *

**emancipation:** 1. the act of freeing 2. being freed

Eric brings me home in his club's Lincoln, a black, substantial car with a supposedly smooth ride and soft, plush seats that don't sink low. Believe it or not, we made this plan a couple days ago, when a whole team of people met to discuss my discharge. From my vantage point in my wheelchair, I look at my get-away car doubtfully, understanding fully that I need to move my body from here to there. Two able bodies dressed in blue descend on me to hoist, support, guide, and maneuver me into the car. I sit sideways on a plastic bag, which slides easily across the upholstery, and then swing first one leg and then the other. I'm sweating by the time I'm buckled in and bracing myself awkwardly with one hand on the door and the other hand on the armrest. "Step on it," I want to say, but knowing that motion will bring new challenges, I say instead, "Take it easy." There are many bumps on the car ride home.

Actually, we don't go to my home. "Do you want to see?" Eric asks as we approach my long, pothole-laden driveway, and I sorely (ha) want to, but regretfully opt to skip it. Woozy, I'm inwardly chanting, "I will not throw up in Eric's nice company car." Out loud I manage to say, "Let's just get there." Eric nods and overshoots my driveway to turn to Bill's.

Though I am prepared for it, I'm still shocked at the sight of Bill's home, denuded of its welcoming grand porch.

"The joys of owning an old home," Bill explained. "I had the porch taken off to replace it and in the process, uncovered a tricky foundation issue."

"Oh, that's bad," I commiserated.

"Yes, and then I had a go-around with the contractor." He threw his hands up. As it turned out, Bill was called away to Peru suddenly and unexpectedly. He assured me that he'd have Terry Bellefleur put in a set of temporary steps until he could return and resolve the issues. "So you can still get into the place," he joked.

I trust Terry's workmanship, but now the house looks all wrong—crooked somehow, and tricky too, like one of those sketches where it's not exactly clear where the staircases are leading.

It's so wrong that I simply don't want to go in.

"I don't want to do it," I say out loud.

Eric has stopped the car so that the passenger door is lined up conveniently with the temporary stairs. He's turned off the engine, but hasn't removed the keys yet.

"The stairs are functional and safe," he says. "That's how they got your bed in the house." As he's looking toward the house, he's stroking his bottom lip with his thumb, pensive, but unconcerned.

I blink, and the house blinks back, seems to straighten its countenance, though the blemished patches where the porch was once attached still fester. Mentally, I patch up those spots and imagine the house with a new grand porch, one where we'll sit one day in rocking chairs with glasses of sweet tea in our hands.

"All right," I answer, though I admit to myself that I am thoroughly daunted by the long recovery ahead.

Actually getting inside is another ordeal. Eric moves ahead to prop open the front door, then returns to stand behind me, holding one of my crutches as I grasp the railing on my good side. It's clunky and laborious, and I do everything I can to avoid jarring myself. At one point, I feel his hand flat against the small of my back. Finally at the top, entering the house, I'm looking at one-level living in a house with a recently remodeled bathroom. I repeat this to myself when I choke up that I'm not home. Almost as though he can read my mind, Eric hands me my other crutch, moves ahead to the bathroom with quick purposeful strides, and then stops outside the door. I keep up my slow, focused pace, counting on every step. Ahead of me, Eric's hulking figure is still waiting, watching.

"I'm living in luxury," I tell myself, coaching. _Multiple shower heads. A shower stall level with the floor. _I imagine gleaming fixtures and fluffy towels and long, uncluttered countertops of some glamorous material. Maybe there's a basket or jar of fancy soaps somewhere. But when I get there, it's the tricked out toilet with the seat riser and safety frame that captures my attention first.

And then it's the huge spa bathtub. Up on steps. From down here, on crutches, it looks like it's perched on a mountain.

But I like a challenge.

One day I will sit in that tub and soak until I'm a prune and the house will not burn down around me. And when I am finished, I will safely descend those stairs without breaking any bones and will use some of that fancy lotion. Rosemary mint. Or lemon. Or ginger pear. Or hell maybe all of it.

Eric catches my eye. "You can join me when I'm ready," I tell him, and he cracks a grin, and for the moment, we are all caught up with each other.

* * *

**interlude: **1. intervening period of time 2. entertainment during a performance break

"I see a rooster with a big tail." I point. "There's his head. He's got a small beak. And only two toes."

"Do roosters have toes?"

"Of course."

He shakes his head. "Those aren't toes."

"What are they, then?"

"Feet."

"All right. But what are the toe things?"

"Claws."

"No…they're more than claws. They're…toes."

He shakes his head again. "There's another name. Like digits. Or phalanges."

I laugh. "That's what digits and phalanges are. Toes. Or fingers."

"Well…I'm just saying there's another name for chicken toes. They're not called toes."

"You are crazy."

"I will never concede."

I laugh. "No kidding. But you're wrong."

We stop abruptly here, with no natural course to follow. In the past, he would have taken me in his arms to kiss and cop a feel. Of course he doesn't do that because it hurts too much. I really _don't_ want him to touch now, but I'm confused about whether I want to want again. It's hard to see around this particular moment.

"I see a bald man smoking," Eric says, pointing out the smooth, round shape of his head, a nose, pouting lips, and the long, pointy cigarette. There's even a wisp of smoke curling upwards.

We are in "The Room," by the way. It's not a bedroom, or a dining room or a parlor. It's…well, it's now the room I am staying in while I recover and my own home gets repaired.

"Anywhere you have space is fine," I said to Bill. "I really appreciate your offer."

The Room was empty and closest to the bathroom—two pluses for sure.

But there was a downside.

Eric prepared me. "It's got the ugliest fucking wallpaper I've ever seen."

He was right.

Really, I've never seen anything like it, so repugnant, it's beguiling.

The yellow of this wallpaper doesn't exist anywhere in nature. It's not the yellow of sunshine or lemons or autumn leaves or a Golden Delicious apple. Not even the fading power of the sun or the stain of water or tobacco or urine could match it. It's a yellow by its own design, a yellow of its own choice, proclaiming its brown and green undertones only after it went up on these walls. A trick of lighting, perhaps.

But the pattern! Oh, the pattern takes off in different shades of that deviant yellow. It's invaded these walls tumultuously, here and there sprouting and sprouting again like breeding rabbits, while in other places stretching and doubling back in an insinuating pattern. As I study it, I wonder, _Where's the repeat?_ _Where's the seam?_ It's wrapped itself around and around the room with no break. But surely there's a break in the pattern. It can't go on forever.

We laugh at it together. "What was he thinking?" Eric shakes his head.

"Oh, you don't think _he_ chose this print, do you?"

"It looks freshly papered to me. It doesn't look old or like it's coming off the walls anywhere. I think he had it papered when he did the dining room and parlor."

Though I agree it doesn't look like there are any tears or bubbles or loose edges, there is nothing fresh about it. I don't say it, but I have the strange feeling that the paper has embedded itself in the walls, has taken hold of the walls themselves.

In any case, we make a game of it, finding all kinds of strange things creeping about in the pattern.

"All right," I say to Eric. "I see your bald man smoking. But I bet you can't find him again anywhere else in this room."

"Game on," he says, and I notice right away that he doesn't ask "What do I get if I find him?"

I think about that, but it doesn't matter because he never does, and eventually we fall into a silence, each in our own thoughts, mine increasingly agitated as I start to wait out the time until I can take my next dose of pain medication. My little break in pain is over. I'm angry because I know there's nothing he can say or do to make it better. And most of all, I'm angry because I desperately want him to.

That's all I have to say for now. Maybe I'll have more later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris.

***Heads up* **This story will include portrayals of rape, other violence and sexual situations, medical trauma, and mental illness. Please note it's a tragedy.

* * *

**Chapter 2 **

**inhabit:** 1. live in place 2. be found

My bed is parked by the window. I really do mean that it's parked. It's a substantial bed, with sturdy rails, electric controls, and an attached frame with a suspended handle for pulling myself up. I imagine Eric angled and maneuvered it just so while backing it here into place, with generous space for passage alongside the window. And though the bed has wheels, it isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

If I raise the bed and turn my head, I can see part of Bill's overgrown gardens. A cranky old rose bush, neglected but massive, is still begrudgingly producing a few scruffy, fuchsia-colored roses. A large swath of the rest of the garden, at least that I can see, has given itself over to nandinas.

Nandinas.

I laughed when I saw those nandinas, sprawled out and left unpruned, all straggly and leggy. You might think I hate them—and normally I do—but a lot of things change with a shift in perspective. From my vantage point here in bed, sheltered behind glass and wood and surrounded by hideous yellow wallpaper, those nandinas, with their deep green leaves and newly formed clusters of bright red berries, look like a garden treasure.

I wish I could lie on my side and face them from head to toe. In fact, I'd like to bare myself buck naked to the window, with slats of sun stamped on my body. I'd stretch and wriggle my limbs beneath the gentle, touchless warmth. Indoor tanning au naturel.

Anyway, I can't. Somehow it feels too strange here in The Room. I don't know why. Also, I can't twist and turn my body the way I'd like. Have you ever had to lie on your back for a long amount of time? Go ahead and try it if you'd like. Eventually, you'll feel the urge to shift. Maybe you'll stick it out for a little while longer, but soon enough, you'll flip for the relief.

I can't do that.

It's maddening. For variety, I shift the bed from one angle of incline to another, and then down again. Tara and J.B. came by yesterday afternoon. They helped me stand and move around a bit, which I'm supposed to do, so long as I don't put weight on my bad side.

J.B. thought some hand exercises might help too. He passed me a gripper. "Give it a squeeze."

I tried, but the hard plastic handle pinched into my palm, and a rough edge—the tiniest bit of plastic—chafed my skin. After only a few squeezes, I rested it beside me. "Thanks, J.B.."

"Aw, come on Sookie," J.B. coached. "That's not your best, is it?" He looked disappointed.

I blinked away tears. Near constant pain saps your strength, leaves you listless and ragged, vulnerable and intolerant.

"Next time." I forced a smile. J.B. had only wanted to help.

"Next time I'll bring one of those soft stress balls. Hey, that's some crazy-ass wallpaper you got in here."

"I see a cat," Tara said. "His tail is sticking straight up. And he's wearing a top hat."

J.B. looked quizzically where Tara was pointing. "Huh."

* * *

**reconnaissance: **1. exploration to gather information 2. preliminary survey

I wish I could see my house. The frustrating thing about being at Bill's house is knowing that it's immediately through the trees, on the other side of the cemetery, but out of sight. So close, but not close enough.

"How's it look, Maxine?"

Maxine was the trusted one I asked to scout out the state of my home with the fire inspector and grab a few items I could use. She is now standing next to my bed, holding a red duffel bag with a cereal logo. It doesn't look very full.

"All right now, sugar," she answers, clearly preparing me for what's to come. "You already know the rear part of the house—the kitchen and porch—are pretty much all gone, right?"

"Yes."

"There's a lot of smoke and water damage down the hall. Some in the living room too. You'll need to repaint. And anything with cloth—curtains, furniture—will probably have to be tossed or reupholstered."

I nod and I think everything is okay until I feel my breath coming in short, ragged bursts, like my lungs can't figure out what to do with air anymore. My side aches from straining against the jarring movement. It's a matter of one part of my body not doing what the other part needs, not working in tandem.

Maxine has pulled a chair up to my bed, and for a moment I worry her big hulking body with all of its structured curves will tackle mine. "Now you listen! What can I do for you? You tell me what I can do!" Her voice is vehement, and full of experience from the far edge of middle age, with still enough strength and impetus to take action. She's so convincing that I come close to telling her _everything._ The whole story, with the real beginning.

Her lips are drawn in a tight line; when she releases them, I see that crazy shade of pink all the Avon ladies prefer. And then I'm reminded of her email blasts. The warning that microwaved water kills plants. The chain letters extolling the virtues of friendship. The top ten reasons why purple is her favorite color.

"Tea towels," I finally say, desperate for a distraction.

"What?"

"Gran's tea towels. The calendar ones you gave her every year. I keep them in the hall linen closet."

Her rigid posture relaxes a bit. She looks confused for a few moments, but eventually leans in conspiratorially, winking. "I think I can sneak back in, now that I know where it's safe to walk." She nods. "I'll see if I can get them clean."

"Thanks, Maxine." I'm breathing better now. As she opens the red bag, I see she's brought a few nightgowns that look brand new. She puts them in the top drawer of the dresser.

"Well, look at that." She glances up, chuckling. "I see a pig with wings. Cute little guy with a fat belly. He's smiling."

* * *

**erotica:** sexually explicit material

Barbara Beck, the librarian, stops by with a worn brown paper bag.

"They're donated books for our library book sale," she explains. "But I figured since you can't get around yet, you could read them and then re-donate them when you're on your feet again. No rush."

I'm touched by Barbara's kindness and tell her so. It's like opening up a stocking on Christmas day. A Nora Roberts is planted on top. When I hold it up, Barbara smiles. "I figured you'd already read that one, but it's probably worth a re-read."

Underneath, I rummage through a bunch of books by an author I'd never read. "Beulah Langford?"

She shrugs. "She's a local author. Never read her, but one of the other patrons swears by her."

And then near the bottom, I find one called "Sweet Indulgences," depicting a woman in a torn apron holding a whisk in the arms of a shirtless man with bulging muscles. A lot of white frosting has escaped from the bowl next to them.

"Oh!" Barbara laughs. "That's from the Take-a-Man-to-Work series. You've got to try one of those. There's more." She nods toward the bag.

I pull another one out. "Welcome Reception," I read, which I figure needs no explanation. The cover of a third one called "Officer Down!" shows a policewoman who's down, but not especially out of commission.

I thank her again, and we chat some more, reminiscing about Gran and her favorite authors. She tells me about a new library initiative to raise money to repair the gutters. We both wish the whole thing could be leveled and rebuilt.

"Your gran would have been the first one swinging the sledge hammer," she says, which makes both of us laugh.

Before she leaves, she pauses and runs her hand down the wall. "I see two people playing pattycake." She traces the shapes. "Here their palms are flat together."

* * *

**ritual:** 1. established formal behavior 2. performance of formal acts 3. unchanging pattern

Eric lies next to me on my good side. He's careful not to bump or shift too much or make any movements I'm not expecting, which isn't always easy for someone of his size in such a small space. One time he sneezed so suddenly and violently, I wet the bed. It's no joke. Bladder control is nothing to take for granted.

Anyway, this is the plan we've worked out: Eric situates himself in bed with me with his shoulders propped up on an extra set of pillows. It's a tight fit, which means we both need to lie still, our bodies simply pressed side-by-side. Sometimes I'll put my hand on his thigh or stomach, depending on how far up he's scooted, and then he'll rest his hand flat on top of mine. That's all. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, but to us every little bit counts.

We talk too, of course. I don't have a lot to say since I'm stuck here, but I'll share gossip from whoever stopped by that day. Sometimes Eric divulges selective bits of news from the club, such as a problem with the beer delivery or a staffing issue. Of course I know only what he tells me, though what he doesn't tell me speaks volumes too. His silence seems to have only grown since the fire.

At this particular moment, my pain isn't bad, so I ask him to lean in close as I turn my mouth toward him. I can feel my own breath exhaling into the crevice behind his ear. He holds steady, so unflinchingly still that suddenly a spark flares, and I'd like to touch him somewhere else. "May I?" I ask. It's been such a long time. Not since before the fire. I trail my fingers along the waist of his jeans.

"You don't have to," he says, and then we're both laughing quietly at the weirdness between us, but it's okay because we both spot it, and there's something very nice and familiar about that. Knowing each other, I mean. There's something sad about it too, about what we've lost. He shifts to loosen his jeans and pulls them down to his thighs as I push his worn t-shirt up. From here to there, a bit of exposed flesh opens a window of opportunity. He's startlingly soft when I first start to stroke.

"Once or twice you slipped into my shower," I say.

"You were always good with a bar of soap."

"I still am."

"Mmm." His breath hitches the slightest bit.

I can feel myself clicking and realigning, gears gripping and meshing, motion stirring as I remember. "I liked your butt." I'm imagining his skin slipping beneath my fingers. One day it will again.

"Was that all?"

"Oh, no." I stop suddenly to make a point, pulling my hand from another favorite part.

He doesn't move.

He doesn't shift.

Not one iota.

I wait another moment. My own breathing I feel. In and out. And again. His seems to have stopped.

There.

I reach for him once more, stroking in the way I know he likes. I do this for me too—to act in a way that I want to be again. I want to move. To do something. To cause results. To bring pleasure. To enjoy pleasure. To be able to get up a head full of steam and let 'er rip.

It's not the sexiest time we've ever had, for sure, but he comes. For now, that's enough.

* * *

**pretense**: 1. insincere or feigned behavior 2. unwarranted claim 3. make-believe 4. same as pretension

"Well look at you, all situated here in your bed like the Princess and the Pea." Arlene's lively voice echoes in the room, bare of floor coverings. She leans in for a hug, the worst of the touches, jarring and twisting. I don't hesitate to hold my palm out in the universal halting sign.

"You still so sore, sweetie?"

_Sore_ doesn't cut it, but I'm tired of talking about it. "Yes," I simply say.

"Here. I brought you a pick-me-up." She pulls a small square box wrapped in pink polka dot paper from her slouchy brown shoulder bag.

"Thank you!" I smile, genuinely happy. I love presents. I turn it in my hands, admiring the wrapping. It even has a bow.

"Aren't you gonna open it?"

"All right." I realize what it is almost as soon as I tear into it. "It's a new…"

"…Word-of-the-Day calendar!" Arlene supplies. "Maxine said your old one probably didn't—you know—make it."

I shake my head, though I haven't spent much time in my head cataloguing the items that did nor did not survive the fire. "Probably not," I agree.

"Oh, it must be terrible being stuck here, not knowing. You must be so worried."

Arlene's got something specific in mind, though what it is exactly, I'm not sure. Maybe she heard some gossip. "What's up, Arlene?" I ask directly, since there's no need to pussyfoot with her. I've cleaned her trailer, taken care of her children, listened to more than one break-up story.

She flicks her flaming red hair and squares her shoulders. "Well, you know. Wasn't the fire suspicious?"

I nod. "Yes, but it's still under investigation."

"I'd feel like a sitting duck out here in the middle of nowhere, at least until I knew I was all clear."

"I'm a sitting duck anywhere I go," I joke, trying to inject a lighthearted tone, though it's true I'm vulnerable. "I'll have someone watching out for you," Eric said, and I left it at that. There are simply too many things I can't do anything about while I'm laid up.

She raises her eyebrows, like I've told her fresh news. "So there _is_ somebody you're worried about."

Her focused interest stops me short. I force the corners of my mouth up and stretch a smile. "No, I mean I'm stuck. Not going for a jog through the woods anytime soon." I wave my hands over my legs. Exhibit A. Technically I'm not lying since not one person, but a whole list would like to take a shot at me.

"Oh," she says in a tone that almost sounds disappointed. She slumps a bit and leans against her chair. "Anyway, not much is left in the year, but when I saw this one marked way down on sale at the bookstore, I knew I had to buy it for you. Plus it has crossword puzzles on the reverse sides. Here, let me show you."

She takes the box from me, opens it, and starts pulling. Huge chunks of the year come off in her hands. And then as she gets into the month of October, she slows down, rifling through page by page. "Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. There you go." She cracks open the plastic stand, sets it on my bed table, and passes me a pile of days gone by.

"Oops! Wait a minute. I went one day too far." She laughs. "Today's not Thursday. Today's Wednesday. Wednesday the 24th. Boy, time is flying, though, isn't it? I still have to buy Lisa a pair of orange and black striped tights for her costume. Gosh, I better do that soon. You know how everything gets picked over on the weekend before Halloween."

As she speaks, she rolls a thick gob of glue strip from the calendar between her fingers. "Well, anyway, these oughta keep you busy, right?" She plucks a single day from the pile. "What's a nine-letter word for 'to submit'?" As she's thinking, she gazes off at the wall. "Hey, I see an upside down house with a chimney."

* * *

**fruition: **1.a state or point in which something has come to maturity or had a desired outcome  
2. enjoyment of intended outcome 3. plant's fruit production

_Ready or not, here comes the Bogeyman with his same old song._

_In an instant, he knocks me half senseless, shoving my jaw upward with the thick meat of his palm. The world stretches, bows out, falls slack. Like limp curtains on a line, blown by a brief gust of wind. Mama's inching the plastic wash basket with her foot, scraping it across the tired, dry grass. She stoops, stands, and reaches. I'm scratching at a mosquito bite when she holds her hand out for another clothespin. "Sookie!" she snaps. And then the gust hits again. I fall limp and airless. Daddy is telling me to put some starch in my drawers. No, that's not right. It's, "Hot weather really takes the starch out of me." But that's Gran's expression. I strain to focus and form up. I think of Daddy's teeth, brilliant and perfect. I like his smile. The gust hits again. "Buck up," Sookie, Daddy says. Yes, that's what he says. "Don't be a crybaby." And again… "You're easy meat…" _

…_Meet. Mete. _

_Ha! He meets the meat I mete. _

_No. I don't think that's right. Mete. Meat. Meet...He metes... _

_...Oh!... _

_It's no joke. (I can feel it happening!) I'm down hard, scrabbling on hardscrabble. Scrabbling hard. His face is too close to mine. I wrench my neck, turn my cheek to flatten it against the rough floor, and stare down a whole row of tires and underbellies, their twisted metal guts exposed. "Hold tight," I repeat to myself in my own voice, and I do. That much I do. But he's taken hold. I hear his beat on my breath. It's vibrating in my bones too, that fucking cadence. _

_When he is finished—completed!—I am not a flat wisp, but me in relief. No, not relieved. **In** relief. Drawn out. Palpable. Unmissable. _

_But the thing about the Bogeyman…his number keeps on playing. He wrenches with his whole body, intending to maim. I scream. And it all starts again. D.C. al fine. Bumpity-bumpity-bumpity-BUMP (repeat)._

"Sookie."

"My leg!"

"Sookie, it's time."

"My leg hurts!"

"I got here as soon as I could. It's time."

Eric is standing over me, his palm outstretched. The room is dark, dimly lit by a glow cast from the kitchen. I can see he's fully dressed, even still wearing his jacket. Only when he passes me a glass of water do I understand. With my other hand, I reach for the pills he's offering. I take them all, not one at a time, but all of them on my tongue with a long, steady drink of cold water. I feel the chill in my throat, trickling down to my belly.

He takes the glass from me and gives me some crackers before moving to undress. His motions are efficient and perfunctory. Coat gets hung on chair. Boots go under bed. Jeans fall in a heap. He adds his t-shirt to the pile and then moves toward the bathroom. I hear water running. I wait, trying to ignore the buzz saw vibrations ripping from hip to toes. My stomach is queasy, but I try another cracker, hoping it will help. My head is still clouded. I need to think and make sense of things to banish the bad thoughts, made all too real again by the twist of current pain.

I remind myself that now I'm at Bill's house. It's the middle of the night. Eric is just arriving here from the club. Maybe I doze a bit, because suddenly Eric is standing in front of me. He seems to be waiting.

"Is it time?" I ask, momentarily confused about what he is doing here.

"Do you want to use the bathroom?"

_No. Definitely not. Probably should. _My hip and leg still hurt, though maybe not as much. When I move to sit up, Eric reaches for the crutches. He stands nearby until it's clear I'm steady on my feet.

"I'm okay," I assure him. Now that I'm up and moving, my short nightgown loose around me, the air feels too cool as it hits my clammy skin. I crawl inside, feeling the stubble on my legs raise. I should change my nightgown and tidy up the braid I've situated at the nape of my neck, but that would do little good, like patching a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. Here I am, like it or not, unwieldy and substantial. More to me than I'd ever wanted. Some days—the bad ones—begin like this.

I make it to the bathroom, where I notice the shiny clean marble tile. I admire its glossy softness, searching for the faint seams. I find them—barely—smooth and reassuring. I decide I'll at least brush my teeth.

When I get back to The Room, Eric is already under the covers of his twin bed, located on the wall adjacent to mine, right inside the doorway.

"All set?" he asks, and I understand he's not merely talking about my damn crutches. He'd never be the first to say Mickey's name out loud. Not like this, anyway. Mickey's still out there, though, by the Word of Victor.

"I'm all right." I wait a minute for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The light is on in the kitchen, but for now it will have to stay that way.

I think I hear Eric whispering.

"I'm sorry?" I say.

"Hmm?" he grunts.

"Did you say something? It sounded like…"

"Huh-uh," he grunts again, scarcely awake.

I swear I hear the whisper once more, but decide it's only the swish of the foam on my crutches. I set them aside, gingerly work my way into bed, and try to settle into Eric's reassuring soft snore. Nighttime is always the hardest, when nothing seems to make sense under the disorienting spin of darkness and sleep mixed with pain. I worry about closing my eyes and losing control to it all. That's the terrible thing, really—knowing it will all come back.

From the kitchen, enough light shines into The Room to show the collection of odd shapes gathering on my walls. The rooster with two toes. Tara's cat. Maxine's pig. Arlene's house. Barbara's people playing pattycake.

In case you're wondering, by the way, I've found no repeats. Tonight, as I search for another bald man smoking, I see something new…

Lemons.

They're all over the place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris.**  
**

***Heads up* **This story contains portrayals of rape, other violence and sexual situations, medical trauma, and mental illness. Please note it's a tragedy.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 3 **

**disconcert: **1. cause to feel uneasy 2. thwart plans

The shifting shadows are clouds passing swiftly overhead. Gusts of wind shake the house—shake it by its very shoulders—rattling the windows in their tracks like loose teeth knocked silly. I think maybe one day, this house will give up and spit its teeth out on the lawn, flashing one proud, gummy smile before Bill descends with the replacements, white vinyl double-hung affairs that tilt in for easy care.

I think maybe I've been awake forever and not at all. That's the sense I have, or maybe the lack of sense. I don't know what to call it. Awake. Asleep. Sometimes they meld.

No, not now. Now I know I'm awake, of course. I see the evidence of my awake day on the tray in front of me. Cheese sandwich and apple for lunch. One failed attempt at a crossword puzzle. (What in the devil is a four-letter word meaning 'combination?') One half-hearted go at a Nora Roberts novel, read to page twelve. One go at pornography packaged up nice and pretty as _Sweet Indulgences_. The TV was on now and then too, but I can't stand the noise. It's all annoying, really. All of it. I don't know how to say it better than it's like nails down a chalkboard. It's so easy to feel overloaded when pain already fills you to the brim. Too easy.

And I can't—for the life of me—figure out this wallpaper. Today I watch it shift and blink in the alternating light. They're peering out, all those lemons, bulging…

…I'm awake. Don't go anywhere. I was telling you about those lemon eyes. Do you know what I mean by lemon eyes? They swell outward and come to a point at one end, which makes them look cross, as though I've done something to offend. Or sometimes devious, like they're coming up with a tricky plan. I've come up with a word to describe the color, definitely not a cheerful lemon yellow. I won't say it though because it will make you sick.

Anyway, now that I know they're there, I can't seem to make them fade. The chimney on Arlene's upside down house sometimes becomes a present underneath a palm tree. I can turn one into the other with a slight shift of the eyes. My eyes. But those eyes, those lemon eyes…they don't ever recede. Watching.

* * *

**deceit:** 1. dishonest practice 2. something done to mislead

Bill calls. "Sweetheart," he says, and I imagine him patting me on the head. It's always driven me nuts, but today somehow it's reassuring, maybe because he's in Peru and can't really touch me." In case we get cut off, let me give you the name of that electrician first. You have something to write with?"

"Sure." I grab for a crossword puzzle slip on which I've managed one clue—"nun," as in "cloistered one."

He gives me the contact information and then apologizes for my inconvenience, after which I do the same—apologize to _him_ for the inconvenience. "I don't know what happened," I say, though I suspect some kind of rodent got in the walls and chewed on wires. "Eric checked the circuit breaker, and it doesn't look like the whole circuit's bad. It's only the outlets along one wall. Two of them."

They are an inconvenient two, which I don't say to Bill, of course. When the outlets went on the fritz suddenly, I lost my clock and bedside table lamp. And bed. Plus every so often, I swear I hear a swishing and rustling noise in the wall behind me. _Creepy_.

After some back-and-forth arguing over whether Bill will reimburse me for the service bill, he asks a simple, "How _are_ you?"

The intensity of his question takes me aback; he's ready to listen from far, far away, and I can try on a new fit.

"I'm great," I say, "Getting better every day."

"That's wonderful news, sweetheart."

I try to picture how I might look in his mind. Fresh and alert, with a clean, unrumpled nightgown. Smooth legs. Oh, gosh, that would be nice. A clear head. A positive mood. A real smile.

No pain.

We talk for a while about how wonderful my recovery is and other social niceties, such as how grateful I am to be able to use his house, and how grateful he is that I can housesit for him. Then he asks about my own home renovations.

"They're stalled. They think it's suspicious and haven't given me the go ahead yet."

Bill pauses. "They're taking forever. Want me to talk to anyone?"

"Thank you, but Eric's on it." _In his own way._

He pauses again. "All right, but you let me know."

We end the call. I realize as soon as I hang up that I've forgotten to ask about the wallpaper. I try out my smile for a little while longer for my own benefit, and end up feeling foolish. It's no use pretending, anyway. It doesn't really change anything, and now I'm tired from the effort.

I close my eyes to shut out everything around me, but inside isn't always better. Where do you look when you don't want to see? My eyes ache from looking askance, from pulling and twisting in their sockets. Sometimes I wish I could simply be. Lately it's been such an effort.

All right, all right—I'll stop the pity party. I'm clear-headed enough at the moment to recognize I'm on a downslide that I need to brace against. But the pain is climbing, as it always does, wrapping and winding delicately before tightening its garroting band. I seem to have lost track of the time, too, so I'm not sure when to take my pain medication again. I decide to wait until I can't stand it anymore. I can do that. I can hold out longer. Yes, I can do that.

* * *

**furrow: **a low or negative point, especially a temporary one

I think I ought to finally pull the page. Arlene said to pull it today, I think.

Now's the time. Awake and alert, I'm not having any of my crazy dreams. The meds are doing their best to keep up, blunting the sharp thrust of pain. Out in the garden, wide open sunshine is polishing the nandina leaves to a glossy sheen. Inside, its pure squares of light, untouched by sickly wallpaper glow, are landing straight on top of me in bed…

…So…_hel-lo_ Sweet Indulgences. The well-worn book that Barbara Beck brought falls open easily to the spicy passages. I skip around, quickly figuring out that the pastry chef is making a go of her own "cupcakery" she calls _Babycakes. _She has a lot of time on her hands, apparently, and not a whole lot of concern about a surprise visit from the health department.

Most impressively, she can come at the slightest touch of her honeyed, parted flesh. Standing. Sitting. Lying down. Against subway tile. On the marble slab island. I'm no slouch in bed, and Lord knows Eric has enough creative energy to go around, but now I see I was an underachiever even on my good days. Plus I'm pretty sure I never tasted so good.

But now…now I am numb.

Truly numb. So numb there's nothingness between my legs. It's such a strange thing feeling numbness bumped up against so much pain.

I guess it's too soon. That's what I tell myself, anyway. I'm still mending. I try to distract myself with another crossword puzzle and grab for no particular slip in the pile. I'm quickly angered when I can't figure out a single dumb clue.

So I force myself to get up and walk around. I do my circuit, down the long open hallway to the parlor, where I do a mini loop. I don't dare venture too far into this room, arranged with area rugs and tables full of knick-knacks. There's not a space to wedge myself and two crutches amongst the carved furniture feet. I think it's silly that the feet are really feet, complete with curved knuckles and toenails. Or claws. Whatever the hell they are.

I have the sudden urge to take a crutch and swipe underneath them all—delicate tables on tiptoes, rigid armchairs on braced alert, and a curved and twisted davenport that looks like it stretched the wrong way one time and got stuck. I think about how gratifying it would be to upset the arranged order of this room, to see it all tumble in a heap. I'm about to grab at the silky, fringed cloth atop one of the tables when I notice it's probably an antique.

Better not.

Upending all of this tipsy furniture would be poor sportsmanship, like shooting a tethered turkey at the annual Monroe gun club Thanksgiving event. "That ain't real hunting," Jason explained the first time he'd shot a doe and hung her by her hind legs in the garage from the same hooks that used to hold our bicycles.

I leave it all be and turn away from it.

Except that there's no turning away from it. This sameness is driving me nuts. Same surroundings day in and day out with nothing new to look at. Physical therapy hasn't started yet. Not many people are dropping by anymore. I _wish_ I could climb the walls. That would be really cool. Next time Eric comes—I don't care if it's in the middle of the night—I'll have him take me outside, down the tricky front steps. Pain be damned. I _will_ do it, I vow, even if it hurts the whole fucking time.

I'm working my way toward the kitchen—maddeningly slowly—when it hits me hard.

Happy endings are one of life's special treats, you know? Not dime store candy.

The thought makes me sad to the core. I skip the kitchen and return to The Room. It's an ugly place to cry and somehow ends up feeling wrong and awkward. I feel no relief. Only more discomfort.

Listen, this numbness that I feel has to go away sooner or later, I'm sure of it. Yes, definitely. It's not a result of anything permanent. I'm sure it's fixable. I just have to give it some more time and try again. It matters to me too, after all. Most of all, to me.

But I've gone about this all wrong, haven't I? Eric should be here. Yes, next time.

* * *

**credibility: **1. believability 2. willingness to believe

Something is moving out in the yard.

I see it from the kitchen sink as I'm rinsing out my cereal bowl and adding it to the pile. A branch is swinging. Maybe just the wind, I tell myself.

Still, I turn the overhead light off and tug on the absurdly thin, ruffled fabric of café curtains awkwardly. A back door next to the sink has blinds that have already been pulled. I peek out through the edge.

It wasn't anything, was it? The memory sneaks back, revealing perhaps a flash of black leather and denim. But was it real? Or something I imagined? Maybe my fear got the better of me. I might be able to convince myself it was just my imagination if it weren't for what I know, that there really _are_ things that go bump and grind in the night.

I start to move to the phone. I'm working around the kitchen table when I hear an unusual noise—a dull thump—from the other side of the house, maybe in the garden outside The Room. Definitely not my imagination.

Someone is here.

_Run!_ Every nerve cell in my body is screaming. _Get out of the house!_

But I'm stuck. I'm facing about ten feet between me and the phone. Ten lousy feet. I move quickly without thinking, drawing on that hardened part of me. I don't remember the steps. By the time I reach the phone, I'm sweating and shaking—dammit!—and I fumble as I press the numbers to Jason's cell phone.

He answers on one ring. "No, I still haven't gotten in touch with my electrician friend," he snaps in greeting.

"Jason!" So relieved he answered, I feel myself softening. It's risky. Too risky. "I need you to come. Someone's outside."

"Who?"

"I don't know! I saw some motion and heard a noise."

"Shit," he says, not out of concern, but annoyance and resignation.

"Hurry!" I say, but he's already hung up.

Now I'm left here waiting, trapped in a house that might not ever give me up. I must have made a wrong move on my way to the phone because one whole side of me has been pulped and routed. I'm jangled. My head throbs. My stomach is twisting.

Only a couple steps would get me to a chair at the kitchen table, but I wait here, frozen, pressed against the wall near the phone. It's my only defense—remaining motionless—like the pieces of braced furniture in Bill's parlor. I wonder how long they've postured protectively, praying to be passed over.

Minutes pass. The refrigerator kicks on with a quiet shudder and then settles. I listen for other movement, will it to come out of the woodwork and present itself, at the same time wishing it magically gone. Each swish and creak becomes a footstep swept away.

I start to shake, my rigid muscles reaching exhaustion. I wonder what comes next, what happens when I falter. Maybe I should just move and be done with it. Give myself up. Get it over with...

No...No.

There's more in me. I don't know how much, but there's more. I allow myself to shift a bit to tame the pain. A buzzing, steady tone has started in my ears. I draw quaking breaths in and out that rattle.

Time crawls. I give myself more pep talks, struggling to make sense. The image of Sam unloading bags of compost and grass seed and black nursery pots of boxwoods from his truck replays in my head. He spent one whole fall afternoon digging up a little square of dirt in front of his trailer to make a lawn.

Next thing, Jason and Hoyt are entering the front of the house. I hear their boisterous voices right away. "Sookie!" They call, moving quickly, their bodies jostling, brushing against walls, thumping on the floor carelessly. They're laughing, which must mean everything is okay. It's Hoyt who finds me first, still in the kitchen.

"Hey!" He says. "Look at you getting around the house. I thought you were stuck in bed. Good to see you!"

"Hi, Hoyt." I force a smile. "Thanks for coming."

Jason pops his head over Hoyt's shoulder. "Come and see," he says. "In your room."

Reluctantly, I start to move. It's so slow going that Jason darts ahead and returns several times to check on me. Nearly gagging, I move straight for the bed.

"Can you see it from there?"

"See what?"

He pulls the curtains to the side. Atop the wrought iron table, pulled close to my window, a glowing jack-'o-lantern grins at me, google-eyed.

_Trick or treat._

"That's all it was, sis. Just a prank. Ain't nothin' else out there."

Hoyt is laughing. "My mother was right." He walks over to the wall opposite my bed. "There's the pig with wings."

Jason is now looking too, sniggering and elbowing Hoyt. "That ain't all." He points, and then Hoyt is laughing again. "Oh, yeah," he says, elbowing Jason back.

"All right, all right," I cut them off. I thank them both for coming. They leave, jostling down the hall again, as young and bumbling and blithe as they were when they came.

I turn my head toward the jack-'o-lantern and its unfaltering grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I see more slinking in the paper, too, bodies drawn to the edges of the lemon grove. Here and there, I catch a glimpse of flesh, a bare arm or a leg that reveals itself before disappearing. They slip behind the lemons, peer out through them.

Wide-eyed. Only occasionally blinking.

* * *

**respite: **1. brief interval of rest and recovery between periods of exertion or after something disagreeable  
2. a temporary delay 3. a temporary stay of execution of a criminal.

Sam stops by with dinner.

"Looking good, cher," he teases. I stick my tongue out at him and imagine tousling his halo of shaggy red-gold hair, which could sorely use a trim. Myself, I'm wan and bedraggled—even though I gave myself a go at it—but Sam picked a good time to rib. Either he was lucky or somehow he knew.

When he pulls dinner out of the brown paper bag, I think I might've died and gone to heaven. "Oh! Is that Perdita's chicken fried steak?"

He nods, his Newman-blue eyes shining.

I'm moved to near tears. "Is there bread pudding too?"

He nods again, smugly.

"I thought you'd bring chicken strips and cheesy bacon fries."

"Naw, you can get those any old day." He pulls another white foam container from the bag as the playful banter between us suddenly falls flat. "Hey! Chin up! Brighter days are just around the corner," he says, pushing the limits of my platitude tolerance.

"You know it." I try to focus on the thoughtful, delicious meal he's set out for us and work hard to banish any concerns I won't heal enough to be on my feet for hours every day. What would I do if I had to give up my job at the diner?

"Tell me the news," I prod, hoping to switch to a different channel.

He pauses for a moment. "Catfish said his crew would be working on the parish road out past the Baptist church starting next week."

"Finally!"

"I know. About time."

"That reminds me I need to call Jason." Thank him again for helping me out.

"Haven't seen him at the bar in a few days."

I give Sam a knowing look. "You know what that means."

Sam nods, taking a bite of dinner roll. "I don't know who it is this time."

I sigh, find I can't seem to work up the usual disgust I feel about Jason's proclivities and the way women seem to always fall for him.

"Arlene went out on a few dates with Dennis Pettibone," Sam adds.

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow at this news.

"It seems to have died down. Or at least I don't hear her talking about him anymore."

As I'm thinking over this bit of news, I don't have anything to say other than, "Hmm…"

"Oh! And we had a brawl brewing the other night between Mark Duffy and Jeff LaBeff."

"Again?"

"Something about the Saints' defensive lineup."

I can't help but roll my eyes.

"Naw, it was bad," Sam insists. "They got to shoving and yelling so loudly, I reached for my baseball bat, but then just like that, Charlsie was in the middle of it."

I laugh, fully able to imagine Charlsie stepping in between those two.

"Yeah, she put her arms around both of them. Told them if she had her way, she'd lock 'em up in the same room until they were best friends."

I shake my head. I don't get it, but I've seen Charlsie in action like that before, disarming people with a smile and an easygoing joke. I can't imagine the same working for anyone but her.

We're digging into the bread pudding when Sam suddenly declares, "I see a lion. He has a big mane and he's got a wolf by the neck. See?" He waves his fork toward the wall. "Her limp paws are dangling down right there." He doesn't drop his fork until I've looked and nodded knowingly.

I'm able to keep my dinner down until he leaves. Barely. As he's gathering up the trash and leftovers from our meal, I see something close to pity in his eyes, something I can't stand, and maybe it's my pure anger that gives me the determination to hold it all in.

But eventually, it does all come up.

* * *

**acquiesce:** to agree or comply with something in a passive or reserved way.

"Victor is starting to ask more questions."

"Like what?"

"How long until you start physical therapy? When will you be able to handle nights on your own? Is there anyone else who can cover?"

"Oh," I say simply.

Eric is at the foot of the bed, where there's a small table with two chairs pushed against the wall. He's leaning forward with his knees spread, elbows resting on them. From this position, he has to crane his neck to face me, but he does, in fact, look at me directly. "We knew this would happen sooner or later."

"Right," I answer. I'm too tired to explain that I consider this sooner rather than later. That Eric barely disrupted his work schedule while I was in the hospital, just so he might have a little extra consideration now when we'd need it more. Neither Eric nor I ever trusted Victor, so I don't know why we ever thought any accommodations we made would have made any difference.

"I wouldn't bring this up if I thought there was a way around it."

"All right." I'm not even sure what I'm agreeing to. It doesn't matter. It's clear it's already been decided.

"You could still come to my place."

It's a non offer, really, and one that stings. We both already agreed it wouldn't be practical. I'd be too far away from other friends who could help. Too far from physical therapy once it started. Too far from doctor visits. Too far from my own home and the fire inspector and general contractor. One day I will be able to re-build my home, after all.

I don't even respond. I hate what's happened to me, and I'm scared. I can feel that empty, deflated space where I once enjoyed self-reliance, drawn, pressed, and squeezed out of me. It's wilted out of my grasp now, undefined. And at the moment, I don't have the wherewithal to shape it into something sturdy and meaningful.

I'm sorry. I know I'm no fun this way. Please come back again later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I also owe a nod to Haruki Murakami's 1Q84 for the glove bit in the first scene below.**  
**  
***Heads Up*** This story contains portrayals of rape, other violence and sexual situations, medical trauma, and mental illness. Please note it's a tragedy.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**effectual**: potentially effective in producing a desired or intended result

"_Kick him in the balls, ladies. Hard! Don't hold back."_

_Standing in a karate studio, Tara and I faced our self-defense instructor, Darcy, a short, middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense haircut sprinkled with gray. She wore a white polo shirt tucked into an elasticized pair of swishy pants that made her belly bulge and her butt flat, but I could see from the bands of muscle in her arms that the cream puff look was only an illusion. She's not to be messed with. I imagined that in her spare time, she enjoyed counted cross stitch, cake decorating, pumping iron, and kicking ass. _

_Darcy had stuffed a pink rubber cleaning glove with a soft, squishy material and attached it to a punching bag. Then she'd moved out of the way to let us all have a go._

_We laughed and took turns attacking the bizarre appendage like it was a sport, though after only a short time, the tone grew serious. Tara kicked upward with such force the whole glove ripped off the bag._

"_Good," Darcy said, meaning nothing about our technique. We were all panting and stirred up and not at all comfortable. The laughter was gone; the dangling pink bits were no longer funny. _

Of course it wouldn't be until later when I'd fully realize that sometimes there's nothing to be done. Or not enough. Not really, anyway. Fighting gives you a backbone, holds you up sturdy enough to allow you to still look at yourself in the mirror—_I tried_, you can say to yourself (repeat)—but doesn't always change things. It's galling when your best isn't enough. Maddening. Infuriating.

Fuck it all to hell.

* * *

**accomplice: **somebody who helps somebody else to commit a crime or misdeed

Pam comes today since Eric hasn't been able to take any time off from work. I hear the click of the key in the front door, its long, tortured moan, and the shuffle of her feet on the wooden floor before she calls out to me.

"Sookie?" Her voice has enough lift at the end to make it sound like a genuine question, as though the thought crosses her mind that I might not actually be here. She doesn't know what the lemon eyes know.

It's a wonderful idea, not being here. But I _am_ here, fastened in place and shaped and formed by all of these eyes. I hold silent, pretending not to be here. _Run and hide!_ I'm amused for a moment by my own game, even join in with the laughter. My voice sounds thready and strange.

"It's so dark." She's louder than the laughter; I'm encouraged.

I hear her snapping blinds and drawing curtains. Her footsteps work their way down the hall, room by room as I imagine light flooding the rest of the house. There's a thrill in this, in being sneaky. My body responds—still does what it was meant to do—its pulse quickening, throbbing in my temples. I marvel over the rush in my gut. Excitement! Energizing! If only I could jar some of it for later, then I might…

"Sookie!" Pam says, finally striding into my room. Her tone is insistent, her steps purposeful in my direction. She sees me.

_I'm here!_ _Surprise! _

But that's my private game, not for her to know. "Pam!" I respond aloud, taking care to match her tone. "I haven't seen you in a coon's age."

She reaches for me, her fingers outstretched to touch, and I'm so excited to see her that I forget to flinch. When she rubs at my cheeks, it's surprisingly okay.

"What is this?" she says with a hint of annoyance. "Whatever it is, it's not coming off." After some time, I pull away, finally irritated. "It's yellow," she adds. "Yellow smooches."

"Oh!" I laugh, realizing I haven't been entirely careful in hiding my secret. I clench my stained fingers behind my back. "That's nothing. Good to see you." I nod at the plastic bag in her hand. Watcha got there?"

She passes it to me. "It was out on the porch."

When I look inside, I see the calendar tea towels Maxine promised. There's a note, too. "Happy Halloween," it says. "Honey, I want you to have these from my kitchen. I was going to save them for you as a homecoming present, but hoped they would cheer you up now. You'll get there!"

"It's Halloween!" I remark, turning to tear a page off my word-a-day calendar.

Pam looks at me strangely. "It's November second," she informs me. In the ensuing silence between us, I hear all of the rustling and shifting surrounding us. She speaks over the noise. "What happened to your clock?"

"Electrical problem. Bill gave me the name of his electrician, but he hasn't come by yet." I don't tell her about the bare flesh living in the walls, sneaking about in the overgrown foliage, peering out and making off with the lemons, but I think maybe if I confide in anyone else, I'd choose her.

"How do you know when to take your medication?"

"Sam gave me his watch." I twist the watch on my arm, hiding the numbers. One time I hit a wrong button and since then, couldn't get it straightened out. So now I simply wait until I'm in pain, and then wait a little longer until I take another dose.

"This isn't any good for you," she finally says, looking around. I think she means well, but I'm angry at once that there is any assumption that it would. She has more to say, but doesn't, at least not to me. She stomps off. I hear her talking loudly and angrily, on her phone presumably, but try as I might, I can't make out what she is saying.

When she returns, she suggests a shower and then stands by as I maneuver through the laborious steps. Finally clean and dry, I take the nightshirt from her. It's a silky one with long sleeves and buttons down the front. New, I think. I can't remember how it got in my drawer. As my robe falls off my shoulders, she cracks a lewd joke about headlights. But looking up as I move to cover myself, I see her lips, tightened in a serious, straight line. I apologize. "It's the walls and their tittering." There. Now she knows the truth too. Her head is cocked.

For a moment or so, I allow myself to slip into a world of ogling eyes and raucous rattle-buzz. It swells, reaches a crescendo, and holds steady. The pressure from Pam's hand on my shoulder brings me back, as the steel gates in my mind work to shut out the clamor. Now I can hear the snip of the long, thin scissors as she cuts a tag. I watch her motions carefully as she discards the tag, pushes the trashcan against the wall, and places the scissors in a cup on the nightstand beside my bed.

Her head is cocked again. She's gazing at the wallpaper. When she says, "Hmm, look at that," I expect she's about to tell me what she sees. But instead, she reaches up and snags the tiniest loose edge of wallpaper near the window overlooking the garden. With her neatly manicured nails, she tugs, peeling the longest strip of wallpaper I've seen yet, flapping like a banner.

* * *

**resolve: **1. make decision 2. solve difficulty 3. settle argument 4. dispel doubts 5. change

I have a new mission. A new purpose. You may help if you'd like.

I can get up and move a little more now. The secret is in the pills. Just a smidge more is all it takes. Then I can get up and move with more carefree abandonment than I've felt in months. Or maybe it just seems like months. I don't know how long it's been, really. Arlene's calendar says November 2, but it seems to have been stuck there for a while now. I suppose I could make it any day I choose. I could peel off another day as I see fit. Here in my own little world, that's the day it would be then. And what would it matter?

Anyway, I have a pair of scissors. Long and pointy and sharp. Shiny. I can work the tip under the edge of a bit of wallpaper. It does no good to be quick about it. Patience is needed. If you try to tear too prematurely, the paper splits into a feather edge that's damn near impossible to remove. But if you ease the tip of the scissors underneath, slowly, carefully…that's it. If I had an extra pair, I'd give you one too. But here. Look at that! I've gotten a nice edge. And now…oh…I grab hold and pull. And it's the loveliest thing in the world pulling off long strips at once. Relieving. Better than an orgasm. Oh, but who are we kidding? Not much is better than an orgasm, is it? I'm talking about a good, solid, rocking orgasm that whooshes right on through. I can say that to you, can't I?

But the voices in the walls…I wish they'd stop. I'll just sit here for a spell. Don't mind me. I'll rest for a bit before I take a smidge more and have at it again. There's still a long way to go, and I don't know how I'll get the top. Maybe when Eric's free, I'll ask him to help.

* * *

**reality**: 1. real existence 2. type of existence

The voices are bad today. Worse than ever.

They have much to say, clattering and clamoring in such a disorganized way I can't make it out.

"Shhh!" I say, which makes them laugh.

I put my hands to my ears to no avail. I put a pillow over my head. I cover my body with layers of blankets, sweating beneath them. _It's not real_, I tell myself, and for a moment I believe. Except that I can _hear_ the crowded voices. I can't understand them, but I can _hear _them. They're not merely stuffed inside my crazy head. They're outside of me, poking their way in. And it's daytime, so I know it's not one of my bad dreams. I hold up my hand in front of my face to prove it to myself. I curl my fingers, feel the pinch of them digging into my palm. _Real_. I twist and feel the pain radiating from my hip down to my toes. _REAL_. The voices are real too. I swear it. I hear them.

For a while, I work this pattern of thought over and over, testing, prodding, searching for something to form up in me. Something solid. Some kind of firm, unyielding step out of the quicksand. I try building that steel gate in my mind, with heavy interlocking plates that gnash together tightly. It seems solid—I even hear the clang of metal closing—but the voices get through its clenching teeth. I put my hands to my ears. Panic wells up when I realize I can't stop the whorl twisting my brain. It seems wrong, but I can't stop it. So it must be real. Or not. Maybe it's not real.

I hold my hand up again. I tell my hand what to do, and it obeys. I examine the lines on my palm and fingers. My hand. I push it out to hold it in a halting position, feeling the muscles in my arm stretch. Stop.

I tried taking a smidge more, but that seems not to be working so much anymore. Getting around is more difficult than ever, so I lie here, flat out. Surrounded.

The walls are tattered. Yet I see movement frequently, a tip-toeing among the ragged edges and the top section, still fruiting. And of course, the eyes, always goggling.

I hold up my hand, curl my fingers. Rub my forehead. Press my hands to my ears. Sweat beneath the blankets.

* * *

**camaraderie: **a feeling of close friendship and trust among a group of people

Can you keep a secret?

All right, then. I'll tell you something. Eric came today. He's here now!

"Sookie, you smell like a donkey," he said, standing over me. I was so glad to see him, I didn't even care he was probably right. About my smelling like a donkey, that is.

"Eric!" I shouted so he could hear me over the din. "I haven't seen you in a coon's age!"

He observed me silently for a moment. "Work was nonstop," he explained, adding, "Victor." Well, that was about as much as I'd expected.

"Get up," he said, and I reached for the crutches that he held in front of me. "You're taking a shower."

He followed me, watched while I got started, and then left. It was quiet in the stall, thank heavens, though my head felt strangely light and empty, and small movements made it whip as though I'd been jerked. Once I finished soaping up, I simply sat beneath the water. The spray against my skull was white noise, wonderfully void of any meaning.

Eric's voice finally drew my head up. "Are you finished?"

Before I answered, he reached to twist the water to the off position, passed me one of Bill's thick white bath towels, and strode out again. Within minutes, he returned to help me up from the shower chair.

The first thing I noticed when I re-entered The Room was the lit-up alarm clock. "You fixed it!"

Eric paused. "We've been over this several times already. It was only a tripped circuit. I fixed it weeks ago by re-setting the circuit panel."

There was a clunk in my stomach. An odd dropping-out. I thought hard. If I remembered what Eric was telling me at all, the memory was slippery, a vague recollection that I could have easily imagined. It wouldn't hold up to my scrutiny.

The numbers on my clock glowed red. "Is that the right time?"

"Yes." He pushed a button on my bed to raise it from its flat position to demonstrate the bed was working too. That's when I noticed the new silk robe laid out for me.

"Oh, it's beautiful," I said. "Thank you."

He was already leaving The Room again, moving about the house like a man on a mission. Items were being moved. Papers shuffled. Doors opening and closing. Bags rustling. There was a clink of dishes in the sink, but I suspected he was just squirting some soap and water to let them soak. I wanted to be with him. It's so very hard to have to be still when a bustle of activity moves around you and you can't join in.

I looked down at the robe, a soothing blue silk with a fluttery hem and lace-trimmed sleeves, delicate and feminine. I thought maybe it could work a miracle, even with my hairy legs. But when I slipped it on, it felt oddly wrong. Not understanding, I dropped it reluctantly.

I hated to stand naked in the middle of The Room. With no other clothes handy, I scrambled as best as I could—if that's what you could call it—to pull the clean sheets over my nude body. I was grasping the covers when I noticed them.

Small Hands!

I held them out in front of me. Really, I swear they were smaller. I curled them. My fingers pinched my palms. Mine—yes, mine—but truly, they were smaller. I was starting to panic—Small Hands! would do me no good—when Eric walked into the room again, speaking as though he were continuing a conversation begun earlier.

"…and you have an appointment with Dr. Ludwig later this afternoon. Bobby will take you."

Suddenly I was irritated and not sure why. Bobby was the easy explanation, the easy fall guy, but not the only one, I thought. It tickled at my consciousness annoyingly, but when I looked at it squarely, it dissolved into nothingness. I swatted away the unease, unwilling to spoil my time with Eric. We'd had so little of it these days.

"I want to try," I told him outright. He got my gist immediately, but looked at me skeptically.

"I will hurt you," he answered.

"No, not like that." I reached for his fingertips, glancing them with my own.

Without another word, he climbed into bed next to me and got in position. Our position.

"Tell me some news," I said firmly.

Eric cleared his throat. I did my best to ignore the shifting and shuffling in the wallpaper.

"There was some trouble with our newest bartender," he finally answered, giving me more than I bargained for. I suspected _trouble_ was a severe understatement, knowing Eric's history with bartenders. On top of that, I figured he'd chosen this topic to avoid mentioning something else, something that was likely the real problem. But no matter. No, no matter. It's his voice I wanted to hear. Mellow. Uninflected without sounding flat. He could turn me on by reading the Constitution.

I listened to the tenor of his voice. I remembered the Indian summer night we'd been stirred into motion by air so hot and thick, it'd seemed permanently stuck. We'd gone from room to room, opening blinds and windows and turning out lights from the back of the house to the front, where we'd been expelled onto the porch…

…_Eric's arms stretched upward, pulling his soft, worn t-shirt over his head, and in the next fluid motion, pushed down, shedding jeans and briefs. I followed suit, my cast-offs mingling with his._

"_This way," he directed in the darkness, reaching for my hands, stepping backwards. I followed his sure-footed padding across wooden porch planks. Within a few steps, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the inky night turning a dusky blue. There was enough light that I could see the expression on his face, so intent I had to laugh._

"_You think it's funny?" he asked, his voice resolute._

"_Yes." Still smiling, I turned my face up to his squarely._

_And then he was laughing too. He reached around my waist, pulling me down on top of him. We fell onto the porch swing, which dipped and bucked wildly. For one crazy and lovely moment, I shut my eyes and swam in that carefree, lost sensation with him._

"_Look at me," he finally said, and when my eyes opened, his mouth was on mine, and up was up and down was down again, and all the in-betweens were right where they needed to be. That was lovely too. Within moments, we set our perch to a slow, steady creak, working each other. Straddling him, my knees pressed against the wooden slats, digging into the creases. Eric gripped my muscles and soft flesh, straining with him. He leaned in, catching his cheek and mouth along my breasts before pulling back to watch, tension rigid in his arms, tugging at my hips. I swept his hair off his damp shoulders and then braced my arms against the back of the swing. _

_We labored there together, steadily edging, controlling the craze, hovering so close to tipping. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I finally told him to go. "Come on, Eric!" I urged. "Go, go, go!"_

_He smiled one more time before completely tensing and turning deadly serious. There's nothing light about frenzy…_

Eric was still talking. My hands trailed down to the waistband of his jeans as he was telling me about the way Pam had dealt with an unruly patron. For once as of late, I thought I was ahead of him. "All the way?" I asked.

He carefully shifted next to me—the bed barely moved—and pushed his jeans off completely. It was a treat seeing all of his flesh, and now I fully realized how much I'd been missing.

"And this too?" I pulled at his t-shirt, which he promptly removed.

"Oh," I breathed out. "You're a tall drink of water." I took him in—looked him over—from top to bottom. I reached for him. He was hard to my touch in moments, in spite of my Small Hands!, and suddenly I really did want to climb on top of him right then and there. _Soon, _I promised myself_._

He was still for me. Steady and motionless. I reached for his hand, tickled his fingertips, kissed them, and placed them between my legs, where he started to stroke. I took a deep breath, hopeful, and remembered the creak of the porch swing rocking with us. After a few minutes, I nudged his finger down a bit and concentrated more intently.

_I'd pushed hard against him, muscles flexing. _

"Smaller circles?" I suggested half-heartedly, numbness still settled between my legs.

_He'd gripped me and pushed back._

I shut my eyes and focused, searching for that little catch to snag on pleasure. Anything. Any hint of a spark to stoke.

But it was just empty.

When I opened my eyes again, they were wet. Frustrated as hell, I really wanted to throw something. And the chattering from the walls had started up again, swelling quickly.

"Lover," he whispered, still stroking.

I wiped at my eyes. I wouldn't cry. No. We'd been over similar rocky terrain once before, and we'd do it again. It's a pain, but we'd work at it. I'd give myself more time to heal. Do some more Kegels. Try a vibrator next time. Light some Goddamn candles and say some self-affirmations. Jesus, it's fucking humiliating.

"Lover," he whispered again, but I could barely hear him over the growing din surrounding us.

"Shh!" I said to the walls. Their stadium-like chants upon cheers drew out, long and layered.

"More!" they shouted.

"Me too," I retorted. "I want more too!" Damn straight.

The sounds surrounding us immediately grew overwhelming, bearing down hard and suddenly with a weighted rush. At the same time, one broad, white shoulder rose up and over me. It was a simple flash of movement—but unexpected—and enough flesh and solid muscle to trigger familiar panic. "More!" someone shouted. Fear and arousal flooded me. _All over._ It made me sick. My gut retched, wrenched my whole body.

"Sookie!" a voice called. I whipped my head, began the painful scrabbling. Beneath me, the grit of concrete bit my skin.

"Sookie, look at me!" I scrunched my eyes to block the flicker of fluorescent light and his face hovering over my own, the most intimate of spaces. Suspended so close—too close—I knew without looking that his features would fall into meaningless pieces, here and there a flat plane, the bland color of putty, an etched line, a curve or swelling, an angle or hard edge. Terrifying fragments.

"Sookie!"

I pulled on myself from the inside—straight through—on that drawstring that would cinch me up tight.

_Kick them in the balls, ladies_.

I couldn't move my legs well enough, but I clawed for the dangly pink bits with my fucking Small Hands! and caught hold of flesh, twisting hard. Opening my eyes, I saw a glint of silver and knew what I needed to do. Pam, bless her.

I stretched, knowing how much it would hurt—and it did—but paid no mind. In only a moment, I was holding silver. Sharp. Yes, definitely sharp enough to stop the Bogeyman this time. It didn't take long—only a few decisive strikes. When his motion stilled, so did I.

It will have to be our secret, of course. Victor mustn't know. He's used to getting his way and doesn't like it very much when he doesn't.

I breathe deeply, trying to steady the gasp of pain. Maybe I'd grab for the orange and white bottles to take a smidge more, but I'm exhausted, and there's simply nothing to be done about it. The pain is rock solid and unyielding. Fossilized. It's a part of me now.

Eric is right next to me. Motionless. Unflinchingly so. I'll rest here with him and recover for a bit, at least as best as I can with all the feverish motion in the wallpaper. Such a strange and curious print.

I close my eyes to it, but the voices are screaming too.

I wish they'd stop.

I'm doing my best to block them out.


End file.
